And Sarah Laughed
by CamelotGirl
Summary: Sarah Connor prepares for the birth of her foretold son
1. Chapter 1

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

--

"-the break-in at the factory reportedly resulted in one fatality. The victim was an as yet unidentified man who had recently escaped police custody." The small TV screen showed footage of the outside of the robotics factory where the crashed truck was now merely dying embers with half a dozen fire trucks and police cars around it.

As Sarah lay in the hospital bed, the sight of the Terminator, stripped of all vestiges of humanness and rising from the fires of the burning truck like a demon from hell, played over and over again in front of her mind's eye. Meanwhile, on the television propped in the ceiling corner of her hospital room, the news anchor, a middle-aged man with hair that was patently fake and a smile with too many teeth in it, moved on: "The entire international community is still buzzing over the fact we Los Angelians will not be hosting any Ruskies in our fair city as the Communists are holding fast to their recent announcement of their intention to boycott this summer's Olympic Games. The mayor of Los Angeles released a statement expressing his disappointment that the games this summer will not bring about any sort of new dialogue with those behind the Iron Curtain."

Sarah closed her eyes and tried to block out the noise as well. She was having a hard time adjusting to the fact that her earth shattering experience of the past two days was being reduced to a mere news blip. The police station massacre had been given top of the hour converge, although her name hadn't come up at all.

The 'Sarah Connor killings' as the media dubbed it, might be mentioned once or twice more on the news, but when time went on and nothing further happened and there were no new developments on the why behind it, it would no doubt soon fade to nothing, she was sure.

As for Kyle Reese… well, 'unidentified man' was probably all he would ever be in the record. That, and 'crazy as a loon.' Sarah resolved that if she ever happened to cross paths with that Dr. Silberman again, she'd punch in the mouth. Or possibly stab him in the kneecap, as Ginger had always advised as a non-lethal way to threaten people who crossed her.

Sarah wondered what on earth she could say to Ginger's parents. Sorry? Christ, had they even been notified yet? It was insane that just two days ago the two of them had been joking about how to treat boyfriends and now Sarah lay in a hospital bed being treated for numerous bruises and lacerations and Ginger lay dead in the morgue, along with almost all of the police officers from the station, and God only knew how many people who had been at TechNoir.

The police in charge of the investigation had already come and gone that morning, not long after she had been admitted to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. They had spoken with her briefly, but with an air of not expecting her to know anything. It was obvious they were just going through the motions.

Right before they left they advised her not to say anything to any reporters who might call on her, explaining any leaked information might compromise the investigation. However, Sarah realized the more politic reason as she heard one of them mutter as they walked out: "last thing we need is the goddamned media hyping some serial killer when we got the Olympics coming to town."

She got the impression that everyone involved had already come to their own conclusions about what had really happened, drawing on nice and safe and perfectly plausible explanations involving drugs and delusions and possibly rival gangs. Doctors and nurses kept telling her how lucky she was to be 'ok.' As if things could ever possibly be ok again.

She had overheard a doctor in the hallway outside her room telling one of the officers that she was suffering from intense truamatization. The trauma of witnessing the police station shoot out, he had said in a patronizing voice that made her want to leap from her bed and scream that _she could hear him_, meant that she was probably going to suffer amnesia about the past two days; her mind would wipe out the memory of the events as a coping mechanism. The cop had muttered 'poor kid,' in a tone that implied he had almost meant what he said, gave the doctor a piece of paper to sign, and left.

Sarah had to bite back hysterical laughter and sobs, not wanting a nurse to come and give her any more of the sedatives that left her almost incapable of movement while her mind raced furiously. Amnesia? The events of those two days were burned into her brain like fire. How could she possibly forget a single second?

The hospital insisted that she stay overnight 'for observation,' although she couldn't get any of the nurse's aides to explain what, exactly, they were observing for.

The next day – Monday – as the rest of the world went about their beginning of the week routines, Sarah checked herself out of the hospital and began picking up the pieces. There was no going back, she knew that; it was less putting the pieces of something back together and more sweeping up the shards of a broken window, all to be thrown away.

The first thing she did was quit her job at the diner, walking in just long enough to tell her boss there was a family emergency and she wouldn't be back. She didn't bother to stay long enough to even say hello to any of her fellow waitresses, much less say goodbye. She walked out without a backward glance; ignoring the questions and looks of surprise cast her way.

She felt incredibly calm. She was pretty sure it was a false, unhealthy calm of shock, but she knew it was better right now than the hysterical break down she kept expecting to happen.

The next few weeks passed in a haze. Sarah went through the daily tasks on autopilot without any thought at all. She ate food without tasting it, took showers without feeling the water, went to sleep because that was what one did at night, and got up in the morning because that was what was done when the sun rose. Every now and then she would startle herself as she realized she had put her nightgown on with no memory of changing out of her clothes, or had arrived somewhere without realizing she had even picked up her keys.

In between the ordinary tasks of waking, sleeping, eating, and everything else she had done everyday for nineteen years, she arranged for her mother's funeral and went about systemically cutting off all cords that had connected her to her old life. She was mildly surprised at how easy it was.

She felt as though she was waking up from one long dream the morning of her mother's burial. She found herself stumbling out of the bed and running towards where the bathroom should have been, but wasn't.

Disorientated, it took her a few moments to remember she was in a hotel. She had gotten a hotel room because her apartment was a crime scene, and then even after it had been cleared by the police, she had only gone back to grab a few things and stayed on at the hotel because she didn't want to stay anywhere associated with her own name nor where her best friend had died.

In the tiny bathroom of the hotel room she managed to get to the toilet before heaving up the remains of some soup from the night before. When she finished she stood up and washed her mouth out in the sink.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked as tired as she felt, as well as older. She felt the cold tile leeching the warmth from her bare feet and shivered - and then winced as her breasts were unexpectedly sore to the touch as she hugged herself for warmth. She glanced at the toilet, and then down at herself. "No…" she said softly, even though inside she knew the truth with a certainty as if an angel of God had just screamed in her ear.

"Jesus," she swore softly with no sense of irony. She tentatively put her hand on her still flat stomach. "Thank you Kyle," she whispered as the first tears finally spilled.

She spent a long, long time crying in the tiny bathroom.

That afternoon she watched her mother's coffin buried with red rimmed eyes but with a sense of relief. Crying for the first time since Kyle's death, along with the realization that he was the father of the son he had told her about with such hero worship had made her feel suddenly free. Not so much as if a heavy burden had been lifted, but more as if she had suddenly become stronger, strong with the knowledge that she was going to succeed because she already had.

The funeral was simple and short because that was what she had insisted on. The funeral director, with the ease of long practice, had quietly but efficiently helped her arrange the obituary, the grave and the internment, and all of the other details that came up when someone had to be buried. She was sure that her mother's friends and the family minister would be upset she hadn't planned anything more elaborate, but she couldn't work up the ability to care.

The rest of her mother's affairs had been depressingly simple to put to rest. A few documents to sign, a couple of meetings with a lawyer about her late mother's will, some phone calls to arrange the sale of her mother's furniture, an appointment with a real estate agent to sell the house and cabin, and soon all that remained of Mrs. Anna Connor was a small white gravestone in Desert Lawn Cemetery and a tidy pile of cash in Sarah's bank account.

Out of everything she had consolidated, the only thing she thought she might miss was the cabin. Anna Connor had spent a brief period in the mid 1960's going by the name of Peaceful Willow, leading a toddler Sarah by the hand through the optimistically named Forever Summer Farm, a small and relatively unnoticed commune in California's hippie culture. Sarah had vague memories of lots of open fields and smiling people playing guitars. The commune had dismantled after a few years as most of the members decided they liked electricity and plumbing and having money to buy things, trickling back to suburbia, most of them all too eager to forget their experience of failed idealism.

The only reminder of Mrs. Connor's brief foray into experimental socialism (and all the experiments that went with it) were occasional camping trips in the mountains and the nickname 'Sunshine Child' that Sarah had been given by one of the grower's of less than legal crops. Sarah loved both the name and the camping. She loved exploring the woods during the day and watching the stars at night.

As Sarah now went though her things and her mother's things, she kept some of the camping gear, telling herself it was for practical reasons and not for the sentiment. She knew, she _knew_ she had to let go of mementos, trinkets, and everything else that was going to be only so much ash in the wind and keep only what would help her survive.

But that didn't stop her from bursting into tears as she boxed up an assortment of childhood memorabilia, knowing she was never going to see any of her or her mother's things again, from the toy elephant that she had cut her teeth on to the fine bone china tea set that had been in the family three generations. Furiously wiping the tears away, she reopened the cardboard box labeled 'Stuffed Animals,' stuck her hand in, and drew a toy out at random; it was a stuffed cat, black with white ears and white paws and slightly worn out. It's name had been Mr. Mack. Sarah stuffed it in a backpack and told herself it would be a toy for the baby.

The baby.

A small grin formed on her face at the thought of what was happening inside, secretly, deep, safe inside. The home pregnancy test she had used had been like a operating a chemistry set, but it had confirmed what she was already sure of. A child. _The_ child. Her son. _Kyle's_ son. The knowledge made it easier to let go. She kept placing her hand on her stomach, even though she knew it was still too early to feel anything.

She went through one last box of papers, to see if there was anything else unexpected. She had been surprised to learn that her mother had a life insurance policy; her mother had never been big on looking to the future. The lawyer had explained the death benefit to her, and gave her several more forms to sign to add the lump sum to her savings.

She walked through the house one last time, double checking for anything she'd missed, but also saying goodbye. As she walked out of the house she half expected lightening to strike or a rainbow to appear – something to signify the moment of an end and a beginning. She felt this should have been a bigger deal than just another thing she was ticking off her mental to do list.

She was even more surprised to learn how easy it was to arrange for Kyle's burial.

The coroner seemed almost grateful that someone was claiming a John Doe. She got the impression he didn't talk to a lot of live people. He babbled about lack of storage space and the bureaucratic red tape he was constantly drowning in and the complete and utter lack of funding and manpower and space his department suffered from while Sarah nodded absently as she filled out yet another form, boldly signing this one "Sarah Reese" as she claimed next of kin.

She paid the fee for the already performed cremation in cash. She brushed aside his further babbled apologies about that, as he again citied storage issues and government regulations about preservation that were in a direct Catch-22 regarding government rules about safety regulations. She didn't mind. She knew where she wanted him buried, and she wanted to carry and place him there without any help.

She drove her motorcycle out to the farm. It was warm and sunny and everything was in full bloom, a perfect day for a ride. She was already resigned to the fact that she would have to trade it in for something more manageable to drive while pregnant, but she was reluctant to part with the bike just yet. She had bought it as soon as she had her license in hand and promptly named it 'Val,' short for Valkyrie. Her father had left years ago, and died not long after in a barroom brawl, but when he had been around Sarah remembered he had been really into old myths, and told Sarah many of the ancient stories, including those of the Norse warrior maidens who had served Odin and his men of Valhalha.

As she rode her bike, first along busy highways, then main roads, then less and less busy streets as she got closer, she replayed every moment she had been with Kyle. She wanted to remember every look, every touch, every word, even the words that scared her, as he described what the future held.

When she got to the tiny town of New Cuyama she had to ask directions, but soon found herself making her way without a problem as she saw familiar roads and sights that she had thought long forgotten.

She pulled up in front of a large red barn where someone was working on an old Volkswagen, two long jean clad legs sticking out from underneath. She kicked down the stand of her bike and walked over. "I thought this place was abandoned," she called out without preamble.

There was a clang of a dropped wrench and an exclamation of surprise. The person on the mechanic's creeper pushed himself out and sat up to stare at the unexpected visitor. "Not abandoned," he said gruffly. He stood up and elaborately stretched out his back with audible pops. "Not yet anyways." He looked at her curiously.

"Mountain Mover?" she asked in surprise, suddenly placing the weatherworn and white haired man to memories of a man with wild red hair and a laugh like thunder.

He smiled ruefully. "It's been back to Dan for a while now," he said as he wiped his hands on an oilcloth. "Do I know you?" he asked inquisitively. "Or are you some reporter digging up ancient history to do a story on the days when hippie's roamed the earth?" He smiled, showing no bitterness that his time had passed.

"My mom used to live here," said Sarah awkwardly. "She went by Peaceful Willow then, before she went back to being-"

"Anna!" he interrupted excitedly. "Of course! Then you must be Sunshine Child! Wow, a little Flower Baby all grown up! Look at you! Good to see you kid! Man, this takes me back. What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

Sarah bit her lip, suddenly nervous. "I want to bury someone here. I… I have his ashes," she nodded at her backpack strapped to the back of the bike.

His face became somber at that, but he nodded with understanding. "Wanna bring someone back to Nature, huh kid? Wait here a sec." He disappeared into the barn and came out a minute later with a small garden spade. He pointed with it at a wooded area beyond a slightly ramshackle fence before handing it to her. "Beyond the fence is all in trust, so even if some capitalist kid gets his hands on the farm and paves it once I'm gone, that'll still be there."

"Thank you," said Sarah as she took the spade and untied her backpack from the bike.

"No problem," he said easily. "Oh, and tell your mom hi for me, will ya? Tell her she should come up for a visit and-"

"She's dead," blurted out Sarah.

"Dead?" His eyes went round and he became very still.

Sarah nodded sadly.

His shoulders slumped. "Christ," he said, rubbing at his face tiredly. "I'm sorry to hear that. Man, _now_ I feel old. She was younger than me. When'd it happen?"

"A few weeks ago. She was murdered."

His eyebrows shot up at that. "Who-" he began, then stopped himself and said, "No, take care of what you came up here to do first. Then we'll talk."

"I-" Sarah started to protest.

"Stay for dinner," he cajoled. He spread his arms out. "I don't get much company up here. And if you don't mind, I want to hear what happened. But it's cool if you don't want to talk about it..." he trailed off.

Sarah could see he wanted to know what happened to his old friend, but was determined not to intrude on her daughter's grief. She hesitated. There was no need to rush back… "It's a long story," she temporized.

"Time is one thing I've got around here," he joked sadly. "If I could bottle it I would make a fortune."

"Ok," she agreed. "I'll just…" but the rest of the words stuck in her throat.

"Take all the time you need," he told her, then turned back to his Volkswagen.

Sarah hefted up the backpack and made her way into the forest, grassy, wild area that was a miles and years away from anything to do with the dark future.

The sun was setting when Sarah finally emerged back from the wild fields, a feeling of contentment that she had been to both give Kyle the green that the machines had taken from his life, and also that she had been able to say what needed to be said.

She and Dan sat down in the little farmhouse kitchen to a dinner of homemade noodles and a sauce he bragged he had made with a new breed of tomatoes he was cultivating. He offered her a glass of home brewed cider as well. "It's got a kick like a mule, but it tastes like apples from Eden," he promised.

Sarah smiled as she held a hand up. "I'm pregnant."

He repeated the gesture from earlier of raising his eyebrows high. "Well, well. The Flower Baby having a baby! Then," he held his own glass high, "to the old tree falling and the new leaf budding," and he took a large swallow from his own glass. "Now, what happened?"

"Have you seen the news at all?"

He chuckled bitterly, "I gave up on the idiot box years ago."

"Ok, well, a few weeks back I was waitressing at this restaurant in LA when there was a news report on TV of the murder of a woman had had the same name as me…" she began.

About the time that she got to the police station massacre, Dan switched from his homemade cider to a dusty bottle of Tequila. He had drunk most it down like water when she reached the part where she put Kyle's remains in the grass, where he deserved to rest.

She ended and the two of them sat in silence as he contemplated the near empty bottle. When he finally looked up his eyes were shinning with unshed tears. "I wish I could say I was surprised," he finally said. "But I have seen things…" he trailed off, and then glanced sharply at Sarah. "I was at Hiroshima, did you mom ever tell you that?"

Sarah shook her head silently.

He laughed without mirth, his eyes looking at something in the past. "Oh yeah, they needed infantry grunts like me to go in afterward and bring back damage reports. There is nothing we poor humans can't make, even – no, _especially_ our own deaths."

There was silence in the little kitchen.

He cleared his throat self consciously and asked, "So, what is your plan?"

"I'm going to try and drop off the face of the earth," she said succinctly.

He nodded. "Good plan." He took another swig of the Tequila. "I wish I could offer you safety here, but it's best if you avoid any American infrastructure. And you're going to need training."

"I know," she said earnestly.

"I turned my spear into a plowshare too long ago to be of any use, but I still advise you look up someone ex-military, just more recent than me. The more dishonorable their discharge the better, since they'll be more willing then to let you in on all the dirty tricks you learn in the armed forces."

"What can you teach me?" she asked with intensity.

He laughed. It was just like the rolling thunder noise that she remembered. "Keep up that approach and you'll do fine. People love to show off what they can do. As for me," he got up and went into the living room, and picked a book off a shelf. "Here, take it," he said, tossing the small dog eared paperback on the table.

She picked it up. _Steal This Book_, the cover proclaimed in stenciled lettering.

"Most of the specifics, phone number and such, are outdated, but I've made a few general annotations about how to live the off the beaten path lifestyle."

Sarah flipped through the book - every single page had handwritten notes. She raised her own eyebrows as she looked at him.

He modestly waved a hand, "And people over the years have contributed their own notes and such. It'll be a good introduction for you."

She leafed thought the book as she lay in the guest bed that night. When she finally fell asleep she dreamt of a rainstorm of flowers and bombs.


	2. Chapter 2

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

--

Sarah's initial plan was to see the Trinity.

What Dan had said about Hiroshima was what prompted her; there was much from the past that could prove valuable, and she was determined to seek it out. She started by spending an entire day in the Brentwood Library.

She visited the smaller library rather than the grander Central Library that she had usually visited when, a lifetime or three months ago, depending on how you looked at it, she had done research on a school project or browsed for something fun to read at the beach. As she had left Forever Summer Farm, Dan had advised that she try and always move as randomly and unexpectedly as possible. "Don't give your enemies patterns to pick up on," he had said before giving her a hug goodbye. "Snipers love to pick off people who stick to schedules."

She thanked him and set off, pausing for one last look at the farm when she reached the end of the dirt driveway, committing to memory the smell, sight, and sound of a throwback to simpler times. She waved goodbye to Dan. He waved back from where he was back to work on his Volkswagen, one hand giving her a salute, the other holding the already lighted flame torch as he prepared for some metal surgery. She drove off, suddenly eager to be moving.

In the library that day she trawled the shelves and selected a stack of books on numerous subjects. She then sat in a reasonably comfortable leather chair, back to the wall, exits in sight, the eclectic stack of books on a table next to her, and read through them, trying to gleam anything that might be useful. The books she had selected ranged from the Manhattan Project to the Viet Cong to automotive repair to General Sherman to Boudica to human anatomy to the Battle of Verdun to gunpowder to Emperor Tiberius and beyond. Any title that leaped out at her that suggested something that might help.

But it was so hard to ascertain what might prove vital to survival and what would become only so much obsolete trivia. At the moment she had two advantageous people rarely had in war – time and advance warning. She didn't want to waste either.

As the sun set, casting long shadows through the windows, she looked up from a book on Sun Tzu, and blinked rapidly, facts, figures, dates, and names jumbling around in her mind. She knew she wasn't going to remember, or learn, what she needed to know just by reading. There were things she had to see for herself.

The book_ 'Now it Can be Told: the Story of the Manhattan Project' _mentioned that in Albuquerque, where much of the preparation work had been done for building the first, but, unfortunately, not last, nuclear weapons, there was now a museum dedicated to informing the general public both the science and history of nuclear energy.

Sarah had wanted to see the actual testing sight itself, to see with her own eyes the destruction men's hands had created, but another book, _Brighter Than a Thousand Suns, _mentioned that, four decades later, the radiation levels in the area were still harmful. Atomic tourists were only allowed in twice a year, for a one hour visit, and while there they were forbidden from drinking, smoking, eating, or applying cosmetics within the area. Children and pregnant women were heavily advised not to go. And everyone was forbidden from touching the rocks that had turned glassy green from the nuclear blast. Sarah reluctantly decided the museum would have to do for now.

As she was leaving the library she passed a bin filled with slightly worn out books for sale, twenty five cents for the paperbacks and fifty cents for the hardcovers. She spotted a book with a torn cover called _So You're Going To Be A Mom_. Skimming through it she saw it actually had some concrete advice regarding food, clothes, and exercise, rather than the philosophical crap she had seen in some of the other books on pregnancy she had already looked through - books clearly written for women with careers; yuppies who planned on raising little baby yuppies.

She bought the more down to earth book, sticking it in her purse to nestle incongruously alongside _Steal This Book_. Dan's notes had proven to be fascinating reading. She blinked back tears, thinking of how much she and her mom had never talked about, and now never would get the chance to.

The next morning, however, downing pre-natal vitamins with orange juice at a small café downtown she read an article in the _Union Tribune _that made her decide to change her route slightly. The article described a new form of hand to hand combat that had recently become a part of FBI training, and experts were holding a series of demonstrations to civilians as well. The Lawrence Family Jewish Community Center in La Jolla, just north of San Diego, would be holding demonstrations of the new technique, open to anyone interested in learning about self defense.

Before leaving Los Angeles she reluctantly traded her motorcycle in for a jeep. It was red, except for the driver's door that had been replaced at one point with a door from a black jeep. It was rusting in spots, dirty with the kind of ingrained dirt that no amount of washing would get out, and looked as though it had been through a few adventures of its own before Sarah spotted it sitting in the corner of Ernie's Used Car Lot, a lot that made up for a lack of quality merchandise with an excess of little multi-colored triangle flags flapping everywhere in the breeze.

Sarah haggled intensely with Ernie himself, a middle aged man who made up for a bald head with a beard that went halfway down a disturbingly bright Hawaiian shirt. She managed to get the price down to almost a quarter of what was written on the windshield, pointing out that he was going to turn a profit on her motorcycle.

She also managed to convince him to give her a crash course in auto mechanics, insisting that he show her how to change a tire, the oil, and do basic repairs. It was easier than she had thought it would be, and when she had said so, Ernie had laughed and pointed out that jeeps were originally designed for the army, where you couldn't expect any given soldier to have a brain, so everything _had_ to be designed for even idiots to handle.

Once she had the keys in hand and was reasonably sure she could keep herself from getting stranded if anything broke down on the road, she checked out of the room she had been staying in and loaded the jeep up with all of her earthly possessions, pared down to two boxes, a duffle bag and a backpack.

She was anxious to get out of L.A. She thought of the interview at the police station she had watched from the next room as Kyle had angrily tried to explain it all to Dr. Silberman: "Most of the records were lost in the war. Skynet knew almost nothing about Connor's mother: her full name, where she lived. They just knew the city."

It wasn't much.

Sarah thought of those steel fingers reaching for her through the grate at the factory.

It had almost been enough.

Sarah knew she had to keep her head down and keep moving.

The last thing she did before leaving town was buy a handgun. She had a hard time remembering what it felt like to dislike guns. She knew, intellectually, that not long ago she had found them distasteful. Sitting in the jeep, gun in lap, she frowned, thinking of how she had tried to ignore the gun Kyle had pressed into her hand when he briefly left her at the motel. She had left the gun on the bed, concentrating foolishly at the time on the simple pleasure of a shower. But now, she felt safer now, to have the weight of the gun in her hand, knowing she could deal out death if anyone threatened her and her son. And, so armed, she headed south to La Jolla to begin investigating other kinds of self defense.

--

In the community center's gymnasium, she sat on the waxy floor with about thirty other curious onlookers, mostly teenage boys, underneath one of the basketball hoops, facing three men standing in the center court. One was in his late 50's, with a neatly trimmed beard that was more grey than black, dressed like a college professor in a nice sweeter vest and white colored shirt, with only the yarmulke distinguishing him from the _Anglos_ of San Diego. Standing beside him were two men in their mid to late twenties, both standing at parade rest in grey sweatpants. One wore a plain black t-shirt, the other a plain white one. They were clearly military types, well muscled and well trained.

Sarah swallowed a lump in her throat as she thought of how Kyle had always looked at a room the same way the two men were doing now, a sweeping gaze that checked and double checked for any potential danger.

"I'm glad you all could make it," the older man began. "May I introduce Calev Erez," he gestured at the one in the white t-shirt, "and Noah Singer," the one in the black, "all the way from Israel. Gentlemen, _shalom_."

"Shalom," they answered in unison. "Thank you for having us, Rabbi Nemzer," added Calev Erez in what Sarah assumed was an Israeli accent.

"We are honored you could join us," the rabbi said to them, then turned back to the audience, "This is a very exciting opportunity for all of us as this is one of the first times such a demonstration has been given on the West Coast. I'll turn things over to you two now," he said, and went to sit and join the others, the young boys obligingly scooting over to make ample room for the rabbi.

Calev started, "This type of fighting we're here to demonstrate today is called 'Krav Maga,' that means 'close combat' for those of you who still need to work on your Hebrew," he said, slightly admonishing, "The fighting style was developed by an amateur Hungarian wrestler name Imi Lichtenfeld in the 1930's as a form of self defense from Nazi militias. When Israel became a nation in 1948 Lichtenfeld became the chef instructor of the hand to hand combat training in the Israeli Defense Forces. In 1964 he began a program developing Krav Maga for civilian frameworks. Up until three years ago all training in Krav Maga took place in Israel. We have now begun to showcase the fighting technique in the US. We have already begun a student exchange program and are hoping with these demonstrations to generate enough interest to start Krav Maga schools in the West."

He paced up and down in front of the assembly as he continued, "This style of fighting assumes no quarter given. Be very aware that this is the type of fighting used in life or death situations. The target is neutralizing the threat as quickly as possible, by any means possible." He stopped pacing to stare at the audience, "This is not a dance. This is not an art. This is not a sport. There are no hard and fast rules, and no levels, uniforms, competitions or medals."

There was uneasy shifting in the audience from the teenage boy section.

"The guiding principles are using your body's natural reflexes and whatever is at hand to go from defensive to attack as quickly as possible by striking at any vulnerable point, neutralizing the threat, and avoiding injury to oneself. Again, this is not a pretty choreographed dance-fight like a Bruce Lee movie, it's about causing as much damage as possible as quickly as possible. And then running." He emphasized the point with his forefinger. "You do _not_ try to prolong a fight. Do what needs to be done and _escape_."

Noah jumped in at this point to say, "Regardless of strength, flexibility, or age Krav Maga is effective for everyone." His accent was surprisingly British sounding. "Krav Maga focuses on using a student's natural capabilities and reactions rather than forcing one to learn something that doesn't suit their body type. You don't have to be a massive bodybuilder to win a fight with this technique." He grinned. "Imi Lichtenfeld himself is a fairly small man and he's managed to take both of us out in practices."

"What are the, uh, legal ramifications behind applying these techniques?" asked the rabbi curiously.

"When you are in a situation that requires Krav Maga," said Noah, "the only thing that matters is that you get home to your family safe. In a street fight, no one else is going to play by the rules, so it does you no good to play by the rules yourself. Besides training the body, you have to train the mind to forget about playing nice."

Calev and Noah then began a demonstration, going through different types of punches and kicks to temporarily cripple a hand holding a knife or a gun along with ways of effectively escaping chokeholds and headlocks, first at combat speed, and then again much more slowly, talking as they did, to show what was being done to stop an attack. Then they had the group split into pairs to practice the chokehold escape.

Sarah hung back, unsure about actively taking part. Noah came up to here, "Would you like to try?" he asked her. "It's very much an equal opportunity type of fighting." He smiled. Sarah didn't.

"If this can be tailored to any body type, what do you suggest for a pregnant woman?" she asked, her hand dropping to her stomach without thinking.

"Carry a gun," he said without hesitation, unfazed.

"What else?" she asked quickly.

"Take the initiative. The basic idea with this is to deal first with the immediate threat and then neutralizing the attacker in anyway possible to prevent another attack. Taking pre-emptive action can often stop a threat _before_ it's a threat."

"Shoot first, ask questions later?" Sarah quipped dryly.

"That was the attitude that saved my ass back in Beirut," he said with a dry chuckle.

Beirut. The word rang a bell in Sarah's memory and she suddenly recalled a high school civics teacher, Mr. Freeman, giving a long lecture two years ago to a bored class of juniors on the then current Lebanon War and why it was mostly Winston Churchill's fault, despite being dead for nearly two decades. The teacher had stressed that the soon to be Prime Minister had foolishly tried to apply European standards on Middle Eastern politics back in the 1920's and thus set up a domino affect that the teacher had maintained would be felt for generations in the Mid East.

"I remember failing a pop quiz in a current events course on the Siege of Beirut in high school," she told him, suddenly feeling wistful about the memory.

Noah rolled his eyes. "The history books always get it wrong. Especially when the newspapers get it wrong first."

"Then tell me the truth about it," challenged Sarah.

He smiled sardonically at her, "What's a _shiksa_ like you want to know about the truth of hell?"

She looked him straight in the eye. "I've been to hell. And when my son has to face it, I want him to be ready, because I wasn't," she told him forcefully.

"You sound like my mother," said Noah with a small snort of laughter.

"I'm sure any mother would want her son to be able to survive hell," said Sarah seriously.

"True," he agreed, and thoughtfully gave her a second once over, looking for something, his eyes pausing for a brief second on her left arm. He rubbed his chin speculatively. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"Everything you can," she answered.

And he did. The two Israelis were in San Diego for a little over a week, and while there Sarah spent quite a lot of time with Noah and Calev practicing escapes from chokeholds and defecting hands that held weapons at half speed, both of them promising that once the baby was born any defense teacher would be happy to take her on as a student and she could risk getting beat up all she wanted. They also showed her and the rest of those who showed up for successive demonstrations ways to fight while at any disadvantage, such as being injured or against multiple attackers.

Between the demonstrations at the community center, she and Noah visited a firing range where he gave her tips on aiming as well as sharing with her the declassified parts of his experiences as a soldier. She got a series of interesting details on the best way to strike a base, defend a base, and how to get at an enemy through supply routes. He gave her the nickname 'Tzair' – a new soldier.

On the day before he moved on to continue the demonstrations up the coast, he told her, quite sincerely, that if she ever thought of converting there would always be a place for her in any branch of the Israeli armed forces.

--

Sarah headed east. She took her time getting to New Mexico. Along the way she stopped in tiny, out of the way places, avoiding large cities and anything that looked like it kept lots of records, like chain stores.

Not long out of California she discovered, much to her chagrin, that the radio got reception only intermittently, especially along the desert highways that linked the long miles between the towns that staked a claim here and there in the arid land. She completely gave up on the radio somewhere outside of Yuma when all she was getting was a local pop station that played _Like A Virgin_ so many times she wanted to throw up, and not because of the morning sickness.

But the road was lonely. Sarah knew it was an odd wish, but she wished she could speak to her son. Not the baby, growing every day inside her, already beginning to stir faintly, but the man he would become, so that she could know more about what was needed. Every time she learned something new she wanted to tell him about it and ask if it was useful, if she was doing this mother-of-the-future thing right.

Sarah drove along the endless Route 8, watching the sunrise in the distant, reflecting on the fact that in the whole wide world of people living out their lives, blissfully unaware, there were only two people she wanted to talk to, neither of whom had been born yet and one of them already dead. She kept getting headaches when she thought about the insanities of time travel, but that never stopped her from returning to stare down into the abyss, trying to make sense of it all, as imaginary conversations with John and Kyle, question after question with hardly any answers, circled in her head.

The only thing that calmed her was the feeling of the baby moving within her. The feeling was as faint as butterfly wings brushing against her, but so incredibly moving she had to stop the care and weep, and then laugh with joy, when she first felt him.

Stopping at a small convenience store somewhere in the middle of Arizona, she spotted a small Dictaphone. As soon as she saw it she knew it was exactly what she needed. She found a package of tapes in the next isle, and bought the recorder, tapes and a stack of batteries and began recording as soon as she was back on the road. She began haltingly, clinically, at first approaching the recordings as though trying to write some sort of textbook.

However, she was able to ease up and started to talk in a more natural flow as she imagined what Kyle's eyes would have looked like to hear he was going to have a son, and just began describing him out loud. She recorded her story in no particular order, and just talked, letting herself express her fears, occasionally glancing down on the ever increasing bump on her belly, telling him she was going to everything humanly possible to be what he needed.

By the time she was nearing Albuquerque she had to stop wearing her jeans and stick to her elastic lined sweat pants. She stopped at an old consignment store and, digging through a rack of dresses, found a blue maternity dress. She found some other loose garments. She absently rubbed at the small of her back. She looked forward to when she would get her body back. One the one hand she knew John would probably never be safer than as he was now, but on the other hand, she was eager to be able to done with the constant aches, pains, bathroom trips and other limitations and indignities that somehow seemed to always get glossed over when people talked about the miracle of life.

She smiled sourly at the cashier in the ticket booth when he told he grandly she would only have to pay for one ticket to the museum, despite carrying an obvious freeloader.

Sarah ventured into the National Atomic Museum. She was amazed at the plethora of information laid out at the museum, completely open for anyone to see. They might as well have labeled it the How-to-conduct-a-nuclear-war Museum, complete with props, flash cards, and an eight minute movie about the first testing that played on an endless loop in a dark alcove next to a ¾ size replica of the _Enola Gay_. There was a public reading room, filled with notebooks and documents that, once considered Top Secret, now where available for anyone to read.

She visited the gift shop were she bought several books, including a book that explained in layman's term how radiation worked. If she was going to explain how to survive nuclear fall out to John, she was going to have to understand it first.

As she was paying at the cash registrar she idly examined a display of jewelry, most of in the Navajo style. Her mouth dropped open slightly as she saw a pair of earrings on display, in the shape of the bombs Fat Man and Little Boy. As the lady tried to hand over the change, she saw her glance and told her, smiling brightly, "Would you like a pair? They're one of our most popular items."

Sarah had to get out of this country.

She headed south.


	3. Chapter 3

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

--

Sarah cursed as she struggled to pop the collapsible roof into place as rusty metal screeched in protest to her panting efforts. Pugsley II barked in the front seat. "I know, _Lo comprende_," Sarah muttered, repeating herself in Spanish as she stuck to her resolve to work in as much of her rudimentary Spanish into her daily conversation as possible, even if, at the moment, the conversation was just between her and her dog.

The raindrops got bigger and began hitting all around her faster, plopping nosily on the dusty road and jeep. She finally wrenched the roof into place just as a growl of thunder sounded overhead. She scrambled into the now contained jeep and slammed the door shut behind her just as the rain started come down in earnest.

She leaned back in the driver's seat and took several deep breaths. Even simple tasks were starting to become onerous with the extra weight she was now carrying, and securing the roof had been no simple task.

Thunder growled again. The lightening was still a ways off in the distance but the rain was starting to come down in sheets now, making visibility further than a few yards difficult. The rain drummed incessantly above her and Sarah took a quiet pride in the fact she had succeeded in keeping herself – and Pug – dry.

The dog had been named Pugsley II in honor of Pugsley the Iguana who had disappeared sometime in May. Sarah was pretty sure he had gotten out when the police and paramedics had been tramping in and out of the apartment. The German Shepard's name had been shortened to "Pug," which he quickly learned to respond to. She had picked him up not long after Albuquerque and had been surprised how reassuring the dog's presence had been.

She had thought things would feel different crossing from the US to Mexico, but in truth, if it hadn't been for the short stop through the border gatehouse situated at the edge of the small town of Columbus, New Mexico, she wouldn't have even noticed she had changed countries; the rocky landscape of the state of New Mexico and the province of Chihuahua were exactly the same, the harsh climate not caring a jot about lines maintained by Reagan on one side and Portillo on the other.

Sarah had forgotten about the election until she had heard results being broadcast on a slightly scratchy radio propped up on the counter of a roadside taco stand. Her only thought, as she heard the news that Reagan would be in office another four years, was to wonder which young politician, or perhaps still younger student today, would someday be another old man with too much power who would trust a computer with too much intelligence to control all defenses.

Whichever the country she was in, she often found herself, without even thinking about it, glancing at Pug when she was approached by someone, gauging the dog's reaction to see if the person was human or some ungodly creation on a mission to kill her.

She wondered occasionally how a dog would know. Did they smell the metal bones underneath the organic skin? Did they hear a faint whir and click as the machine moved, undetectable to human ears? Or did they just _know_ on a purely instinctive level that the thing was not natural?

However the knowledge came, the dog was now curled up in passenger seat, perfectly content to wait out the storm here. Sarah glanced out the window, wondering where exactly _here_ was.

The last major city she had been through had been Durango last week. She had learned quite a bit about scorpion bites there, adding to her growing list of field surgery procedures she could now perform, as well as how to celebrate _El Día de los Muertos_.

She smiled as she remembered tasting the _pan de muerto_ – "Bread of the Dead" – made for the Day of the Dead that had been celebrated so joyfully across the country. She had gotten plenty of practice with her Spanish-English phrasebook there, and found most people had been polite enough since she was clearly making the effort.

The woman in the bakery who had sold her the loaf had laughed and asked her in heavily accented English if Sarah wanted to open a bank account or buy some bread, and then nicely explained the error in pronunciation, telling her it was a common one she heard when _Anglos_ visited her shop.

Sarah had thanked her for the language lesson and the bread, resolving to study harder as she tried the holiday special. The bread had been soft and sugary with a surprising orange flavor to it. It was delicious.

She had tried a sugar skull as well, but had enjoyed mashing it up and grinding it down to sugared dust far more than actually eating it, although the morning sickness had finally stopped, and everything tasted good again. She still had to make frequent trips to the bathroom as the pressure on her bladder increased, and she was sure she had seen just about every bathroom the Southwest had to offer.

She had gotten very good at asking, "Dónde está el bano?" as she searched out any and all bathrooms as she had driven further and further south.

Still, she was enjoying being able to eat again. She found herself sitting down to eat some odd combinations of sweet and savory foods, dipping French fries in ice cream, drenching rice pilaf in maple syrup, and getting a fish taco and then seeking out the nearest diner or Dairy Queen for a strawberry milkshake to go with it. She had never been a big fan of strawberries, but now she found herself constantly craving the creamy pink float she had once served at Jeff's Cafe.

The memory of the taste of orangey bread lingered on her tongue for a moment, but then she shivered and took note that the current storm was causing the temperature to drop rapidly. Pug, with his thick fur coat, was fine, but she needed to find somewhere warmer for the moment.

She dug a worn olive green coat from one of the boxes and firmly put on the large straw hat she had been using as a sun shade. Of course it would start to rain buckets before she realized she didn't have an umbrella, she scolded herself. She peered out into the rain. Not that an umbrella would do much in this downpour.

When the sky had gone completely black she had pulled off the dusty main road. She was now parked on what she guessed was the main street, small as it was, of a small village. Through the sheets of rain she could just make out the vague outline of a few buildings a few hundred yards off.

She carefully stowed the tapes and recorder in the back seat and tucked the picture the boy had sold her deep into her purse, which she hid underneath Pug's seat. "Stay here Pug," she told the dog as she squared her shoulders, ready to run. The dog lifted his head, giving her a look that clearly said she was crazy to be leaving the at least dry, if cold, confines of the jeep, then settled his head back on his paws with a small woof.

Sarah leaped from the car, slammed the door behind and started running for the nearest building as fast as her newly bulbous body would let her. She was inside and dripping rainwater onto the marble foot of the baptismal font before she even realized she was in a church.

It was quiet, and nearly empty. In the front pews a few people knelled, rosary beads slipping through their fingers as they prayed quietly, a slight whisper of devotional sound echoing to the back where Sarah stood, dripping. She took off her hat and looked around, uncertain.

Off to the side an old woman lit a small red candle and, with slow deliberate movements placed it in a small alcove dedicated to the Virgin. There was a carpet of flowers and candles at the statue's sandaled feet. The Queen of Heaven smiled down benevolently on her worshippers, without a trace of anger or sadness in her expression at what had been done to her son. The flickering light from the candles danced cross the painted wooden face, making it look almost human.

Sarah listened to the rain pouring heavily on the roof tiles with no sign of letting up as she did the best she could to try and wring out the corner of her dress without feeling too sacrilegious. She glanced at the other end of the small church. How much trouble would she get into with God if she used the alter cloth for a towel? Second circle of hell or just a few centuries in Purgatory?

A young priest came up to her, and with a kindly smile asked her something in Spanish. Without being sure of every verb, she caught the jist of his inquiries into her current state of being and if she required any sort of assistance.

"Towel?" she asked uncertainly, desperately racking her brain for the word in Spanish, kicking herself for not bringing the phrasebook with her. She mimed rubbing her hair dry.

"Ah, toalla, si," he said with a nod. He beckoned with his hands and she followed him into a small room that she guessed was an office of sorts for the priest.

He waved his hand at a chair and she gratefully sat down as he left the room. He came back shortly with a slightly grubby white towel. "Gracias," she said as she used it to dry herself off as best she could.

He left again and came back just as she was finally getting most of the water out. He put a tray down on the desk with a brown teapot and two white china cups on it. He sat down opposite her and as he poured her a cup of hot black tea he asked, "Esta perdido?"

He was asking if she was lost, she realized. She wondered if he meant geographically or spiritually. She wasn't sure what would be the truest answer to either question. She settled on saying, "No, I…uh, I mean, Lo…" she tried to remember the verb for driving, gave up, mimed clutching a steering wheel, and said, "vaya Mexico City."

He nodded and took a sip of the tea. Sarah did the same. It was very hot, so hot she was afraid she was going to spit it out, but she managed to swallow it; it was vaguely spicy, almost fruity, and nicely warming.

"Miguel," he said suddenly, placing a hand on his chest.

"Sarah," she said, blowing cautiously on the cup before taking another sip.

He smiled and said something that sounded like a quote. She caught her name and guessed he was citing something from the Book of Genesis. She nodded. "Abraham y Sarah," she agreed.

"Dónde está Abraham?" he asked, clearly concerned at the sight of the young pregnant woman in his office, alone. He glanced around, as if he could conjure a husband out of the air.

"Muerto," answered Sarah sadly. Kyle as my Abraham, she thought, trying not to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of which Sunday school story the priest was suggesting she was playing out.

She knew that "Sarah" meant "princess." She was pretty sure that all kids found a book of names at some point or another to look up their own and find out if it meant anything cool that they could then brag about. When she had been in third grade there had been two other Sarah's in her class, and they had quickly formed 'The Princess Club' which had involved taking over the best swings on the playground and declaring them their royal thrones and then trying to order the boys to bow to them. It hadn't lasted longer than a few recesses when something better came along, but the memory still made Sarah smile.

She had found out later in a Sunday school class that the original Sarah had been a princess in an ancient kingdom who had left all her wealth and rank and gods behind to follow a man she loved into the desert because he told her God had a plan for them. That they were going to be the beginning of something great.

Sarah hadn't thought about that story in years. Now she looked into her teacup, searching for impossible answers. "Ha muerto," she told the priest. She could feel tears forming and she brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand. Would the pain never go away?

The priest murmured something, probably a prayer for the dead.

She suddenly realized she didn't hear the drumming on the roof anymore and glanced out a window. The rain had stopped. He followed her gaze out to where the sun could now be seen again. He stood up, walked around the desk and made the sign of the cross over her belly. "Vaya con Dios," he told her kindly.

She walked back to the jeep slowly, deep in thought, wondering if it was even possible for her to go with God. So many people were dead. So many people were going to die. Where was God in all this slaughter? Also, she was certain neither God nor any of His earthly representatives would approve of her own plans.

She may not have been keeping current with American news, but she knew enough about current events to know that the best place to learn about living the art of war was Panama. The Americans were pulling out, she knew that much, but there would still be people there who knew what she needed to learn, and as Dan had advised her, those who had been forcibly discharged and left behind would be the most eager to teach.

If even half of what she had read in the papers was true, then these were the people who knew the realities of war, and the kind of war fought on the ground with dirty tricks against organized enemies. She had read one article that had accused the American military of trying to paint a smiley face on a death's head in an effort to cover up the realities of working with less than democratic people, a grim reality when playing the Cold War chessboard. And she was ready to play the game, and she would be nobody's pawn. The baby kicked, as if in agreement.


	4. Chapter 4

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

A/N: the Pemex Fire was a real disaster that occurred in 1984 – and the historical record is silent on who hit the emergency shut down button.

--

As she headed to Mexico City, Sarah re-read _Steal This Book_, leafing through chapters on how to get almost anything for free, from shoes to housing, while still staying below the radar. She read rapturously while eating at various tiny road side diners. She also managed to score many free meals, often times legitimately, using the advice from the book, both that written by Hoffman and that scrawled in the margins in many different types of handwriting; words to live off the grid by written down by countless non-conformists who had been hosted by Mountain Mover at Forever Summer Farm.

She concentrated heavily on mesmerizing passages on how to make homemade weapons, such as Molotov cocktails, while sitting on lonely motel beds, Pug curled up beside her. She tested the Hoffman recipe a few days before getting to the city in a particularly deserted area, nothing but cacti and rocks as far as the eye could see after having driven for more than an hour off the road. The sun was casting long shadows behind each cactus as she set the bombs out and dug out a lighter.

She had assembled them the night before in a seedy little motel, reciting in her head the instructions from the book over and over to keep at bay the memory of the last time she had assembled bombs in a little motel room. She had been able to get everything she had needed at the convenience store attached to the last Pemex gas station she had stopped at.

In the motel room that night she carefully assembled half a dozen of the deadly cocktails, all looking fairly innocent as they sat nestled in the back seat of the Jeep in a box, at a glance simply a bunch of juice bottles – until you noticed the rag trailing from each cap, and realized that there was nothing drinkable about the mixture each held.

With a steady arm she systemically lit and threw each bomb, one after another, testing both her bomb making skills and the bombs incendiary ability. Each made a satisfactory boom and produced a solid flame, although with nothing to latch onto and consume, each quickly burnt out. Pug barked at the explosions but stayed put when Sarah told him to stay in Spanish.

She pursed her lips as she watched the last one burn out, speculating on how many weapon caches she'd be able to stockpile before time ran out.

Reminding herself she still had contacts to make and networks to form before getting to that point, she got back in the Jeep to try and make some good time on the road before full dark.

One of the last chapters of _Steal This Book_ had been headed _The Underground. _ Next to the section in the chapter on fake papers someone had written in blue ink "best fake ids," with the word "best" heavily underlined, followed by an address in Mexico City with the words, "ask for a license for one of the Niños Héroes."

Even though Sarah wanted to avoid major metropolitan areas, she knew false papers would be impetrative to her task, and she wanted to visit a health clinic for a check up to make sure she and the baby were doing all right so far. God only knew how old the address and the password were, but she decided to take a shot at it.

The address brought her to a store on the eastern side of the city on the edge of Chapultepec Park. She walked into the store, a small grocery store specializing in the types of food that were just beginning to become familiar rather than foreign to Sarah, and made the coded request to the woman behind the counter. The woman, middle aged and gaunt, who looked more Native American than Hispanic, looked surprised by Sarah's request, but not confused.

"Momento," she murmured and disappeared into a back room.

A man came out a minute later, tall and imposing. "You wish to make a change of… scenery, senora?" he asked, sounding ironic.

Sarah knew it was going to be difficult to convince some of her sincerity, given the fact the usual request was probably for help getting the kind of ID she wanted to leave behind.

"More like making a new life," she said, matching his irony note for note as she placed a hand on her stomach. She looked him straight in the eye. "I need to disappear."

He nodded thoughtfully. "My cousin can help with that. We haven't seen many _Anglos_ since that whole nasty business your country had with 'Nam died down," he grinned, "but I think we can arrange something."

"Good," said Sarah coolly, refusing to let herself be intimidated.

"Enrique should be off shift by now. I can tell him to meet you at _el paraguas _at noon."

_Paraguas – __an umbrella_, thought Sarah, ruefully thinking that she'd better remember the name by now, given how much trouble she had gone to in order to track down an umbrella to ensure she wasn't caught in the rain without one again.

"It's a big stone fountain at the _Antropología_ Museum," he explained. "Ugly as sin. You can't miss it. The fountain, I mean. The museum is the big white building right through the park there," he pointed. "I tell him to ask for a Miss- ?" he let the question hang in the air, probably expecting an answer of 'Miss Smith' or 'Miss Doe'.

"Sarah," she told him. "Right now it's just Sarah."

He nodded with approval and understanding.

--

Chapultepec Park was a sudden expanse of green and quiet in the middle of the noisy, fast paced and thoroughly modern city. There was an entire forest located in the park, as well as an amusement park, a zoo with roars from caged animals that could be heard across the park, a castle that had housed no less ferocious kings and emperors in its time, sculptures, monuments, ponds, and clean white paths winding through the grass filled with tourists on vacation, entertainers hard at work, children hard at play, and all of it containing a general feeling of release from the urban jungle.

As Sarah ventured through the park she watched the pageantry of humanity and tried to stop imagining the whole place burned to ash. It was so easy to imagine the loss of anything now. She knew no one was too important and nothing too big to be spared the coming fiery maelstrom.

Family, friends, police officers – people who had just been doing their job to serve and protect – and those who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or even just having the _wrong name_… and Kyle. All swallowed up in a day and a night of madness. Kyle had been so strong, able to shrug off physical pain, so entirely focused on his mission, and all that strength and determination had been gone in a moment.

She passed by the monument to the Niños Héroes themselves, the six boy-soldiers who, young even by the standards of the 19th century, had died for their country; the last one alive in the fighting jumping to his death from the castle that stood just a few hundred yards from the marble column commemorating him, choosing death rather than letting himself be captured by the enemy. The enemy in that case had been the United States Marines, but these days both sides seemed pretty intent on just glossing over that part.

She got to the museum and easily found _el paraguas_, an unearthly looking structure that resembled an umbrella that an ancient giant had left behind at the museum in the pouring rain. Water fell down in delicate sheets all around the rim of the top portion, supported by a huge weathered bronze pillar with various designs sculpted into it, mostly stylized animals and plants, but also, oddly, the atomic symbol.

Sarah frowned at the symbolic representation of so much power and potential for such destruction. The metal structure seemed to mock her, reminding her that no matter where she went, the future would always find her. She glanced at her watch - some time yet until high noon.

So she wandered around the _Museo Nacional de Antropología, _enjoying the pre-Columbian artwork – Incan clay pots sculpted into the shapes of dogs, fish and owls, heavy golden necklaces depicting flowers beloved of the Olmec gods, pieces of wall friezes showing Mayan youths vigorously playing some variety of basketball, all of it a dizzying array of color and detail, enough beauty frozen in time to make one weep for the loss of the long unknown dead artists.

And then, after traveling through a hallway laden with heroes captured in stone, she reached a room with only one piece in it, tastefully arranged in the middle. The room faded into shadows at the corners, the single spotlight bringing all attention squarely to the center. The room was slightly cooler than the hallway she had just been in, probably temperature controlled to preserve the artifact it housed, a huge disk of basalt with a complicated series of rings and circular images carved into it.

The disk was twice as tall as Sarah and as thick as her arm span. Mesmerized with horror Sarah stared at the central image, some ancient god or another, depicted as a grinning skull which looked all too familiar.

The quiet of the room was broken as a group of tourists led by a museum tour guide swelled into the room. The tour guide, a pretty smiling woman with her dark black hair swept into a bun, told the group in slightly accented English, "And this is one of our most popular artifacts, the Aztec Sun Stone, sometimes referred to as the Sun Calendar."

The tourists spread out in a semi circle behind the tour guide, some eagerly following along to the tour guide's lecture, others glancing at watches, looking bored.

"Mexico City," she explained, "was once called Tenochtilan and was the capital of the Aztec empire. The stone was mentioned in various records as having been one of the main adornments of the city's biggest temple, dedicated to the Aztec sun god. When the Conquistadors took over the city, they systemically destroyed everything they found of the Aztec culture and replaced it with their own. The temple was torn down and a cathedral was built in its place. The stone was buried underneath the ruble, lost to its conquered people until 1790 when it was unearthed during renovations to the cathedral. For more than a century it was on display in the church until it was moved here during the museum's early years."

The tour guide took a few steps closer and pointed at the middle of the disk. "In the center here you see the sun god Tonatiuh, also known as 'The Shining One.'"

"Why is his tongue sticking out like that?" asked a woman with a decidedly Minnesota twang.

"His tongue is an obsidian knife, the instrument traditionally used in the Aztec ritual killings. This symbolizes the sun god's demand for blood and human hearts."

"Gosh," said the woman, and snapped a picture. The tour guide continued, saying something about astronomy, but Sarah didn't hear her. In her head the words of Kyle Reese trying to warn the police played over and over in her head, "_It'll wade through you and then it'll pull her fucking heart out!_"

Sarah took a deep breath, forcing herself to move back to the present. With heavy will power, she forced herself to listen to the tour guide as the woman recited old history for the sun burned tourists, telling for their amusement a story that had once probably made up the center of her ancestor's world:

"The Aztecs developed a complex calendar system, with an elaborate naming system. This stone not only was regarded with great religious reverence, but also served as an important astrological clock. At the edge of the disk are eight equally spaced holes where the Aztec priests placed horizontal sticks; where the shadows of the stick fell on the outer rings here, here, and her," she pointed out the three rings carved into the stone, "would indicate the day," she pointed at a ring of squares showing different animals, "week," she pointed at a ring of squares of dots, like a ring of dominos laid out flat, "and month," she pointed at a ring of sunbursts.

"A bit heavy to wear on your wrist," there was a faint wave of laughter from her audience at that, "but effective, never the less."

She continued with her lecture, "The Aztecs had a culture centered around war and death, but they were also brilliant mathematicians and astronomers. Each day was carefully calculated and named. For example, the day Cortes arrived here on November 8, 1516, would have been called Reed 1, Year of Lord of the Night, Rain Month, Week of the Dog, Butterfly Day by the Aztecs."

There was another faint titter of laughter at the rather girly name for a weekday from a culture known for its ferocity.

The tour guide went on, "The Aztecs also believed that Time was divided into a series of ages, each age controlled by a different god, and each destroyed by the succeeding god. The first three ages, the Age of the Jaguar, the Age of Wind, and the Age of Water had already passed. The Age of Water had been ruled by the goddess Chalchihuitlicue, known as the Woman in the Jade Skirt, who had been succeeded by the Shining One, god of the fourth age."

The tour guide's tone moved from a strict recitation of facts to a smother storyteller's cadence. "The Aztecs believed they were currently living in the Age of Earth, which would be followed by the fifth age, the Age of Fire. Each age was divided into cycles of 52 years. In Aztec religion, the destruction of every age always occurred on the last day of a 52 year cycle, although each age lasted for several of these cycles.

At the end of each cycle the Aztecs had to prepare in case that particular cycle was also the end of the Age itself. The close of the 52 year cycle was the most important religious event in Aztec life for this moment was the most dangerous in human life. This was the time when the gods could decide to destroy humanity.

On the last day of a cycle, the high priests went to the Hill of the Star, the edge of a valley created by a meteor impact many ages ago, and waited for the constellation of the Pleiades to appear in the night sky. If it appeared, that meant that the world would continue for fifty-two more years. The close of a cycle also involved many other elaborate ceremonies that included increased human sacrifices to feed the gods the energy they needed to fight their divine enemies."

"So the gods needed to… eat people?" asked one of the tourists, a ratty looking man with thinning hair and a large camera slung around his neck. He sounded like Paul Lynde.

"The Aztec theologians," said the tour guide, "developed the notion that the gods were best nourished by the living hearts of sacrificed captives. The braver the captive, the more nourishing the sacrifice, as the gods fed on courage, as well as the energy of life itself. The universe was poised between conflicting divine forces of creation and destruction, but human beings could, in part, influence this balance through the practice of sacrifice."

She switched her gaze from the stone to her audience. "This theology led to widespread wars of conquest in search of sacrificial victims both captured in war and paid as tribute by a conquered people. The Aztecs made many enemies as they expanded their empire, and still the clock was ticking down."

The room was silent save for the tour guide's voice as she drew everyone into her tale of time.

"The Emperor Moctezuma came to the throne knowing that another cycle was almost over. And he was afraid, sick afraid; so many intervals had already passed, this might very well be the end of the world. He ordered a heavily increased amount of sacrifices to feed Tonatiuh to try and stop the ever ticking clock. Records indicate he had nearly 84,000 prisoners ritually slaughtered at the main temple in a three day period to give the Shining One the strength needed to defeat the god of the Age of Fire for another 52 years.

The god who would rule the next age was named Quetzalcoatl. He was said to have skin white as bones and hair made of fire. In the last age he had quarreled with his divine brothers and left in a golden canoe with giant butterfly wings to journey across the sea to let his wounds heal in the house of the rising sun, a golden palace always filled with light. When he returned from the east that would signal the end of Tonatiuh's reign, and the beginning of the Age of Fire, ruled by Quetzalcoatl, who would show no mercy to his enemies or the children of his enemies. The emperor feared the worst as the last days of the cycle closed and storm clouds gathered in the sky, blocking out any and all starlight.

So when Cortes arrived from the east, with his fiery red hair and his pale white skin bleached like _booones_," the tour guide dragged the word out mournfully as all of the tourists listened, memorized, "the emperor was certain his doom had come upon him, and all his efforts to hold back the dawning of a new age had been in vain."

The tour guide's voice changed back to a more clipped and educational tone as she finished her tale, "All of the prophecies were coming true and right on schedule, no less. This dealt a psychological blow that was just as lethal to the Aztec empire as the smallpox the Europeans brought with them. The army of nations conquered by the Aztecs Cortes had allied with, promising them freedom and gold, was almost a moot point as the empire crumbled."

She began walking backwards towards the exit at the other end of the room, "If you will please follow me now to the next room, you will see, rendered in miniature, how Mexico City looked before the Conquest. Please note the striking similarity to-" the tour guide voice faded as she moved farther away and was followed by the crowd of tourists, talking in loud hum, animatedly discussing mundane things like dinner plans and the weather as if to convince themselves that they hadn't been entranced by the woman's story of pre-ordained death and destruction.

Sarah stayed in the room, staring at the disk, vowing silently that no amount of blood would save any destroyer of worlds that crossed her path.

"Ah, senora Sarah?" A hand tapped her shoulder. She spun around, her body automatically taking a defensive stance as she assed the person who had interrupted her reverie. He was younger than the man she had talked to, but there seemed to be a definite family resemblance.

"Who wants to know?" she asked, suspecting who he was but not wanting to give anything away.

"My name is Enrique," he said politely. "My cousin told me about you."

"And how did you know it was me?" she asked pointedly. "He said to meet you at the fountain."

Enrique smiled. "He told me look for the _muy bonita_ pregnant _Anglo_ with fire in her eyes."

Sarah decided to let both comments on her appearance pass for now. "Can you help me?" she asked bluntly.

He glanced around, the sound of the Midwest tourists still audible in the next room. "Walk with me, _por favor_," he said, demonstrating the centuries old Spanish tradition of paranoia wrapped up inside politeness.

They went back to the umbrella fountain and talked while causally strolling around it, any and all conversation masked by the steady sound of pouring water. They came to an agreed upon price for some papers that would easily get her in and out of any clinic or hospital with no trouble, and allow her to move about somewhat freely.

"Meet me tomorrow at 5 am at the Pemex refinery terminal," he told her, handing her a crude map sketched on a napkin. "I work third shift there. The park is a bad place to conduct actual business of transaction these days – they patrol pretty vigorously to keep it all squeaky clean for the tourists." He smirked. "The government never suspects anything happening right underneath their noses at a state owned factory!"

--

She got to the complex just as the rising sun was turning everything an optimistic pink; rocks, buildings and streets glowing as innocent as a strawberry milkshake. A sleepy eyed guard waved her on to drive through the main gate as she called out in Spanish from the Jeep that she was picking her boyfriend up from work.

She met Enrique at the side door he had indicated. As he was handing her a license that identified her as 'Sarah Hoffman' there was **BOOM!** and the ground shock hard enough to knock them both to the ground.

As they got up Enrique was cursing rapidly in Spanish, which, in some remote corner of her brain, Sarah calmly took note of, filing the words away for later examination and study, in the meantime she was getting to her feet as fast as her body would let her and scanning in all directions to try and determine what the hell was going on.

From all over there were sounds of shouts and screams, some in anger, others in fear or pain.

A smoke stake in the middle distance was on fire, and there was a large cloud over it that seemed to raining something flammable. Enrique was now on his feet next to her, still swearing – impressively without much repetition – but now directing his curses at specific individuals who scheduled fuel-refills from the main refinery in single massive quantities rather than smaller and more often re-fills just to shave a few lousy _pesos_ off the bottom line.

The fire was spreading rapidly, causing several more massive explosions that set the ground trembling, although, prepared now, they both managed to stay on their feet this time.

Sarah swore herself as she saw what had caused the latest explosions – a row of metal spheres, all the size of small trucks, had caught on fire and, presumably because they were all just filled to the brim with gasoline, had exploded. And worse – the fiery flying wreckage had landed on the roof of a home on the street across from the plant.

Workers were running around everyone, most of them trying to get away from the fires and explosions as fast as possible, but some stopping to help the injured.

"You got any goddamned sprinklers around here?" she yelled at Enrique over all the noise.

"None of the water systems we got is going to deal with that!" he yelled back, pointing at the fire clouds consuming the gas tanks. "The blasts have probably knocked the pipes out anyways and-" he stopped in mid shout, as some idea obviously hit him.

"What?" asked Sarah. When he didn't respond right away she grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed in his face, "WHAT?"

"The gas pipes are still running! It's all still pumping! Most of the refinery's automated – it thinks it's just business as usual unless someone shuts it down!"

"**GODDAMNIT!**" swore Sarah as she kicked the side door open. If the rest of her life was going to be machines and fire, that didn't mean she had to be happy about it. She turned around in the doorway, "Tell me there's a kill switch," she ordered.

Enrique, who looked ready to do the sane thing and head in the opposite direction, stared at her for moment, then set his mouth with grim determination, and said, "_Si_, an emergency shut down button," and barreled past her back into the factory.

She ran after him and when she caught up with him yelled in his ear, "Fire extinguisher?" He nodded and she followed as they half-ran, half skidded around pipes and structural columns.

He grabbed a dusty looking extinguisher from a side wall and tossed it to her. She swore repeatedly under her breath as she struggled to read the instructional card attached to the nozzle, translate it in her head, get the damned thing started, run after Enrique, not smack into anything while running, and pray to God the fires weren't getting to the main building in the next few minutes – all at the same time.

_God answers all prayers. Sometimes the answer is no._

The old 'joke' popped into her head as a window ahead of them exploded and the flames made their way inside. Sarah managed to get the extinguisher to work and simply sprayed blindly ahead of them, allowing them to move forward as she silently cursed whoever had designed the facility to the deepest pit of hell.

They finally reached a complicated looking control panel. Just as Enrique flipped open a plastic lid over a red bottom – _Why is it always a _red_ button?_ – a small corner of her mind asked wearily, flying glass from another exploding window embedded in his hand, causing him to jump backward with a cry of pain. Sarah leaped forward, mashed down on the button, grabbed the extinguisher, grabbed him by his undamaged hand and booked it out of there, spraying in al directions as the fire got closer and closer.

Once outside they had to keep moving. She vaguely recalled getting herself, Enrique and several others into the jeep and then burning rubber out of there, but the adrenalin was at the point where things got sort of hazy. That and the fireballs gave her memory of the whole morning a red tinge.

Later, sitting in the backroom of his cousin's shop, wearily listening to the radio report the damage and death totals as the woman from the counter silently brought in bandages and a medical kit, Sarah concentrated simply on the act of breathing. Anything else felt like asking too much at the moment.

"You've got some _cojones_," Enrique told her respectfully. "If there is anything you're looking for, just ask, I'll see what I can do." He winked, "No charge."

She looked up at him, blinking slowing as she processed the remark. A mental check list that she was learning to live with at all times popped up in front of her mind's eye. "I'm looking for weapons training," she told him.


	5. Chapter 5

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

A/N: Thank you so much to Metriod13 and CIsaac for feedback on this chapter, otherwise it might not have seen the light of day.

"I am not a goddamned china doll!" screamed Sarah. She realized she was screaming in English, so she repeated herself in Spanish, loudly, to clarify her point. She forced herself to take a deep breath before continuing, still in Spanish, at a slightly lower decibel, "I am seven months pregnant – _not_ an invalid."

The soldier, Joaquin, who had questioned her, asking if she needed to lie down after all the work she had been doing that morning, was a young Guatemalan who looked a few years younger than Sarah. He held up both his hands in a placating gesture, clearly unnerved by her vehement response.

Sarah gave him one last glare and then stormed off in the direction of the tent she currently called home, not caring if she had overreacted. Back at her tent she angrily began, once again, to disassemble and reassemble her AK-74, determined to be able to do it faster this time.

It had been a bad morning, starting with yet another night's sleep broken by a nightmare. In this one she had been forced to watch Los Angeles burn to atomic ash around her and been able to do nothing, absolutely nothing, except curl over the baby in her arms and pray the fire didn't touch him. She had looked down as the fires came closer and the baby she had held had disappeared. Panicking, she had started awake on her narrow cot.

Her heart had raced with fear, but she didn't have to move her hand to her pregnant belly to check on the baby; she could feel her son moving, bumping against a space that got smaller and smaller as he continued to grow, and she suspected his tiny heart fluttered as fast as hers did. How much could he sense? Did he share her fear the same way he shared her air and food? Did he know that nightmares had and would come true? Did he know his life was already mapped out?

She had forced herself to get up and concentrate on the day in front of her rather than the end of days to come. Pug, clearly a morning dog, had bounced up from where he slept, guarding the entrance, and trotted along side as she went about daily chores, like boiling water to make it drinkable and preparing types of food that her waitressing experience didn't cover, and practicing her ability to load weapons. She was frustrated to see the other soldiers have their weapons ready in seconds while she still struggled to have a gun ready for firing in less than ten minutes.

On top of her frustrations, it was humid, which was doing horrible things to both her hair and her temper. She was more annoyed that she was paying attention to her hair than annoyed with the hair itself. She wanted to put memories of hours in front of the mirror with hairdryers and hairsprays well behind her. When she had cut away from her old life, she knew she might miss things, but hadn't expected it to be things as ordinary as shampoo and conditioner.

She put down the firing pin and dug out an old rubber band that had originally been wrapped around a wax paper package of delicate materials needed for homemade bombs. Even the grizzled Alex, who had been fighting one oppressor or another since the 1940's with everything from rocks to stolen missiles, or so some of his late night stories went, was impressed by her methodical assembly of pipe bombs.

Alex has been one of the loudest opponents when Enrique had introduced her to his contacts in, as he called it, the more hands on approach to defying government regulations. Alex, despite not being a local, possibly an immigrant from Russia judging by his accent, was obviously well regarded by the others, and Sarah knew she'd have to do some fast talking in order to stay when told her to her face that while he had known plenty of women who could nurse a baby in one arm and shoot with the other, none of them had been _American_. He said the word like it was the height of effeteness.

Sarah had briefly considered ordering Pug to attack, but instead coldly told Alex that she was no longer part of that ineffectual system and did he want to waste time trying to turn an ally into an enemy or was it just his general habit to cut off his nose to spite his face? He had insisted she'd go crying back to the States in a week. She had been happy to prove him wrong, and to prove her resolve, both with her bomb making skills and her willingness to learn everything and lend a hand at anything.

It was only much later that she remembered that the "cut off your nose to spite your face" line was something her mother had often used to point out when Sarah was about to make a foolish decision. She had grimaced as she had recalled the words from her mother's mouth; Sarah hated that she couldn't always hold back memories of life before she had been informed so matter-of-factly by Kyle that she had been targeted. Memories of a civilized life, growing up with things like piano lessons rather target practice only reminded her of how behind she felt.

When forced by her own treacherous memory to compare then and now, she felt as she looked around the military camp that she had fallen into an article on guerrilla warfare from the pages of _Time_ magazine. Something that only a few months ago was an abstract concept to her.

It was all there, all laid out ready for an enterprising photo-journalist to snap pictures. The shelters made from scrapped together parts, the rounds of ammunition and guns stored like groceries, and the soldiers who stood on a blurry line somewhere between freedom fighters and terrorists, depending on your point of view.

The soldiers, however, were more real than any photo or article could render them. They had lives outside of civil wars – families and homes, some still there and others, like her, only disconcerting memories. When asked about her family, she said that they were all dead and didn't elaborate. No one asked again, and she suspected a lot of the others shared similar hacked off family trees that were still to painful to discuss.

She shared chores and target practice with them, carefully storing in her memory everything from how to start a fire with wet wood to how to modify a semi-automatic HK-91 into an automatic. And she listened as they smoked and drank and gambled and talked during long evenings around flimsy, makeshift tables. There Sarah found one skill from her old life that came in handy - the ability to play a mean game of poker. She sat there, stone-faced, and played her hand as the soldiers traded war stories, sometimes laughing and making light of old wounds, sometimes commiserating on painful pasts, but all deadly serious about what they believed in.

She made sure they knew she was as serious about training as any of them could be.

Alberto still had a slight limp from the other day when he had objected to a _puta_ being included in tactics decisions. She had used a move she'd learned back in San Diego from Noah. She used her foot to hit his leg with a force that, aimed directly at the knee, could shatter a man's kneecap, and she had told him so, and made it perfectly clear she had hit his lower thigh on purpose, but the next time he spoke like that she wouldn't restrain herself from breaking bones.

And for the most part they were now treating her as 'one of the guys.' Except she was still pregnant, and offers of any help she might need, while solicitous, were starting to get cloying. She found herself tending to work at an almost frantic pace at any task she had at hand, trying to shake the constant feeling of running out of time. There was no time for rest, and she would snap angry denials at any suggestion that she was working too hard.

Now, working in her solitary tent, she angrily rammed another two pieces of the gun together, muttering to herself that no man would ever know what he was talking about when it came to pregnancy.

Outside her tent there was the sound of men talking and doing chores, the distant sound of someone chopping wood, and cute little birds in the jungle making cute little bird noises. Another layer of sound was added to the day to day noise as someone nearby turned on a radio.

There was a burst of static and the end of a news segment came on. A quick recitation of current events buzzed through the air. All Sarah was able to catch through the static and her still burgeoning Spanish was that the Guatemalan president was mad about something and that there was going to be a thunderstorm on Sunday. And possibly there was some news about a donkey.

Then the news segued into a music program, and Sarah was startled to hear something instantly recognizable – _Jingle Bells_. True, the singer sang the lyrics in Spanish - but be it in English, Spanish or ancient Sanskrit, the ever so cheerful melody stayed the same.

She paused for a moment in her gun assembly. She had honestly forgotten about Christmas.

She recited in Spanish instructions for gun maintenance she had memorized as she very carefully did _not_ think about the fact that the last time she had heard that song she had been at her mom's house in Big Bear. She did _not_ think about how the house had been decked inside and out with Christmas lights and absolutely did _not_ remember that she had been putting the presents she'd gotten for her mom under the tinseled tree as the song played on her mom's record player. That was her old life, so she wasn't going to think about it.

Sarah sighed and gave up trying to forget. She knew her mother would be appalled if she could see her daughter now. Her mom, a dedicated peace activist who had marched on Washington during Viet Nam would be horrified to see her daughter surrounded by the tools of war. Even though she was certain she was doing the right thing, the idea of probable maternal disapproval still managed to hurt Sarah.

She glanced around her current setting. It was no wonder she had forgotten about Christmas, here, surrounded by guns and ammunition instead of tinsel and presents and hearing soldiers bark out orders instead of civilians singing carols.

She angrily tried to force a spring lock back into place, and was just as unsuccessful as she was at trying to brush away last year's memories. There were some times when it felt as though her life had started the night she met Kyle and been forced to run for her life. Other times she wished that was true, that nothing existed before that night, and wished she could just erase all of her memories before then, to help her focus. She didn't need distractions.

Manuel came in and sat down on a supply chest across from her. "Nice job," he said, nodding at the gun as she finished the reassembly. Sarah made a small non-committal noise of acknowledgment, trying to beat down a ridiculous glow of pride that sprang up inside her.

He cleared his throat and said, "Joaquin… he's new." At that moment Manuel sounded just like her old boss at the restaurant when he would try to pacify one of the waitresses complaining about a new girl or a scheduling conflict.

Sarah had a sudden blinding moment of simple revelation; all people were just that – people, and at the core all were exactly the same, no matter what. And all people could be handled. The thought gave her fortitude.

Manuel went on, "He just thinks all Americans are like what you see on _Dallas_. He'll see what you are soon enough."

Sarah looked up. "And what am I?" she asked, keeping her voice harsh, but curious to find out his opinion of her.

He smiled with all his teeth. "A soldier. Even a blind man could see that," he told her confidently.

She allowed herself to smile and she placed a hand on the ever increasing bmp. "My son will be a soldier, like his mother." She sighed. "He's already been conscripted."

"It will be a boy then, eh?"

"Yes." She turned away to pick up one of her pistols for cleaning, indicating the conversation as over. On the radio, _Jingle Bells_ ended and a Spanish version of _Joy to the World_ started.

Manuel ignored her hint to leave. Instead, he leaned back and joked, "You know, we could put on a nativity play with you as the Virgin Mary. I'm sure we could find a donkey around here somewhere strong enough to hold you and your belly."

"I could hurt you," she told him, chuckling and not looking up from the gun she was cleaning.

He laughed with her. "No one doubts it, especially Alberto." Then he said somberly, "But about acting what you look like…" he hesitated and nervously scratched the back of his neck.

"Yes?" she asked, looking up at him with steel like intensity, suspecting what was coming.

"How do you feel about pretending to be an American tourist again?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because that worked so well _last_ time."

"You did very well. Showed you can think on your feet."

Sarah grinned without humor. "Saved your butts is what I did." She had played the part of a lost American tourist, pretending her Jeep had broken down in the middle of the lonely mountain road that just so happened to be the route the truck from Apex Mines Ltd. was taking to bring a gold shipment to the coast.

She had produced a fit of hysterical weeping to distract the guards when they both were grudgingly offering her assistance, and then, when that looked like it wasn't going to be enough at the critical moment, she had calmly knocked one out with a sucker punch he never saw coming, buying time for Manuel and the others.

"We need to trade in some of the gold we acquired for ammunition and weapons," said Manuel. "Guns are cheaper in the States, but it'll take a few stops in a few different countries to get everything laundered and through customs. If you're up for a long road trip you can be in charge of the goods and be the decoy."

"Story of my life," she muttered, but, despite being reluctant to head back north, agreed.

So back north she went, although by a different route this time. They mostly stayed near the coast this time, rather than going through the midland desserts Sarah had crossed before. It was slow going, since everyone agreed it was better to be cautious rather than caught with the amount of weapons they were smuggling, but Sarah managed to spend her time wisely.

She learned about turning stolen goods into legal tender. She learned that the cheapest place to buy guns was Florida but California was the best place to get them out of the country. She learned that almost any guard could be bribed, and when that didn't work, it didn't take much threatening to break someone. She learned when to shout and when to speak softly and, either way, to always carry a big stick. She learned more about the many different types of guns and how to use them. She learned how to give orders in military jargon that was practically a language into itself. She learned that Portuguese was just as important to know as Spanish, so she started teaching herself that as well. She learned, much to her surprise, that she now knew how to balance a checkbook, but didn't realize it until she found herself managing the group's account books of laundered money.

And she learned that no matter how good she got at lawbreaking, there was no breaking Murphy's Law.

On February 27th she stood in the emergency reception area at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, her dress still damp from where her waters had broken half an hour ago and muttered under her breath, "whatever can go wrong _will _go wrong," as an officious looking nurse came up to her with a clipboard.

No matter how fast she had tried to hustle the operation along towards the end, there had been nothing but delays and set backs as she tried desperately to get herself, the guns and the men out of the country and at least as far south as Mexico City before her due date. And now she was back firmly on square one, in the absolute last place she wanted to be, and John was about to enter the world.

If Sarah believed enough in God to pray to Him she would have. As it was, she knew she was on her own.


	6. Chapter 6

Legal Disclaimer: No ownership of terminators franchise. And please excuse any historical and/or geographical inaccuracies.

--

**FINAL HOUR**

--

_A cacophony of voices woke her. She didn't remember falling asleep. Had she passed out? Where was she? Oh, right. The hospital. Where she had been the past twenty one hours. Giving birth to the future leader of mankind. The voices got louder. She thought she recognized some of the voices among the babble, but most she didn't know, and all of them were worried and terse. There were orders and responses overlapping and mixing together, almost undistinguishable from one another. _

_Sarah wanted to tell them all to either do something about the pain or go to hell. She just couldn't get her mouth to obey her._

_**Hurry up with that- **_

_**We're losing her!**_

_**-don't you think-**_

_**Where the hell is-**_

_**Doctor, the fetal heartbeat is dropping!**_

_**-not going to lose them both-**_

_She was in so much pain. Why was she in so much pain?_

**--**

**HOUR THREE**

--

Sarah had been surprised at how, well, boring, childbirth was turning out to be. She had expected continuous pain and movement and things happening as soon as her water broke, but so far the contractions, which felt like brief backaches at the moment, were far apart, and in between she felt just as she had felt all month – heavy, restless, and tired. And torn between desperately wanting John to be born so she could have her body back and begin training both him and her, but also desperately wanting John to stay safe inside her, where no one could touch him. She knew it was a stupid thing to wish for, since she had no choice in the matter.

The first hour had gone by relatively quickly – consisting of paperwork that she had carefully filled in with false intel about herself, backed up with a beautifully forged ID, and then answering a set of questions on her health, her pre-natal care, her current comfort level, and if she needed any more ice chips – all repeatedly asked by several nurses, a few doctors, two student doctors, and one overeager candy striper that Sarah had to flat out order to go away; the kid had been so perky she had been exhausting just to look at, let alone listen to for very long.

Everyone was very solicitous – being a heavily pregnant woman garnered a lot of instant sympathy that Sarah had been willing to exploit on occasion, and now was definitely an occasion – but apparently being in the early stages of labor did not rank high enough to warrant immediate attention, especially when a large amount of the hospital staff were running around taking care of, literally, a busload of middle school students who had all somehow contracted food poisoning on a field trip.

She was _finally_ admitted to a room where a nurse measured her cervix with a scary looking instrument that made Sarah wince nervously. She sternly reminded herself that after everything she'd been through the past few months, she could deal with a cervical examination. The nurse cheerfully told her that her dilation was just starting and that things would probably take a while. Sarah tried not to moan in frustration, although she did grouse to the cheerful nurse that she hated hospitals. The nurse chuckled patronizingly and told her everything would be fine. Sarah had thrown the woman a glare but didn't bother trying to explain why she had been in the hospital nine months ago.

A doctor had come in shortly after to do another examination, making Sarah feel like something of an exhibit, wondering why they bothered with even giving her the sheet. He introduced himself as "Dr. Shapiro" with a lame "and I'll be your OB/GYN today," pretending one of the extra sheets was maître d' napkin, and then asked if she wanted a natural childbirth without any drugs, sarcastically noting that they were all the rage these days, and he was required to ask.

Sarah had succinctly told him to do whatever was required to ensure this labor was over quickly and her son born healthy. He smiled sourly and told her he'd send an anesthesiologist along to see her soon.

And now Sarah just felt rather bored. She had already carefully assessed how many items in the room that could be made into a weapon (thirty six, not counting the things that were nailed down and would take too long to pry up) made note of the exits in the room (two, counting the window) the exits in the maternity ward (eight), and had come up with seven different contingency plans for leaving the hospital as soon as possible (she could come up with more, but it would just be variations on a theme).

Someone had left an old copy of _Cosmopolitan_ in the room. It was three months out of date, and Sarah rolled her eyes at the tag on the cover for one of the articles that read '_All I want for Christmas is a new nose._' This past Christmas she'd gotten herself the mad extravagance of a new gun holster.

She flipped though the magazine and was mildly amused by an article on astrology, telling the story behind each sign of the zodiac. She grimaced slightly; she was a Virgo, always a bad joke waiting to happen. She'd heard them all, each pick-up line worse than the last. The _Cosmo_ article told her that the picture of the woman holding a sheaf of wheat was Persephone, the goddess of innocence and spring who was dragged down hell by her secret admirer, lord of the dead, to become queen of the underworld.

She looked at the dates; if John decided to show up sometime before the end of March, which at the moment, she noted with impatience, felt unlikely, he was going to be a Pisces. She scanned the article curiously and found that the picture of the two fish tied together by a string was meant to be Aphrodite and her son Eros.

The article described an ancient Greek myth about a monster named Typhos, a huge serpent with eyes of fire, who sought to destroy all the Olympians. When the monster chased after Aphrodite and Eros, the deific mother and son escaped by turning themselves into fish and hiding deep underwater to wait until it was safe to come back to the surface. As fish, they tied their tails together with a cord so that they wouldn't lose one another swimming in the dark of the deepest waters.

Sarah missed swimming. She couldn't remember the last time she'd put on a bikini. She frowned as she remembered from her research that bikinis were named after an island in the Pacific that had been a nuclear testing site and been blown off the face of the earth when scientists decided to see what would happen when you dropped a large H-bomb on a small island. Such stupidity. The more she learned about people the less she was surprised by where it would all lead to on August 29th, 1997.

She sighed and closed the magazine. She glanced at the date on the cover and found herself doing some quick addition as she reviewed what Kyle had told her about what little he had known about Judgment Day. He had told her a few of the sporadic facts he knew about what lead up to the nuclear war against humanity.

He had whispered to her a date he had been taught as a curse word when she begged him to talk about something, anything, to distract her from the present nightmare, and told her what he had been taught about the creation an unstoppable enemy. Facts that had been - would be - repeated both as curses and mantras by those who had been adults the day Skynet decided to exterminate the species that built it, and the adults had passed them on to children who grew up with Judgment Day as something that _had_ happened, rather than something that _might_ happen.

Sarah counted on shaking, swollen fingers, adding dates, wondering why she hadn't stopped to think about this before. John would only just be a teenager when the bombs dropped; he would still be just a _boy_ – a child. She had twelve years, six months and…one day to get him ready. How was she supposed to have enough time to do that? There was so much she still had to learn, and to teach him.

There would be no time for childhood, she noted grimly. She was going to have to have to start teaching him different types of guns and explosives along with his ABC's. She bit her lip to stop a giggle from coming out as an unbidden image came to mind of a toddler in a pair of OshKosh B'Gosh overalls, counting bullets and playing with army radios as if they were Playskool toys. She felt John move; she imagined he was desperate to get out since it was probably incredibly cramped for him at this point.

Huddled together for warmth under that bridge, Kyle had told her, in bits and pieces, of a world turned to ash, and the one man with the ability to gather up those who remained, to survive, to organize, and to fight back. John-of-the-future knew how to talk to people, knew when to knock heads and when to speak softly, he could drink like a fish, build bombs blindfolded and hack into mainframes with one hand tied behind his back.

It was obvious from the way he spoke that Kyle worshipped the man that he had unwittingly fathered. Sarah tried to draw strength from the fact that somehow, somewhen, she had already succeeded in protecting her son and teaching him how to save the world, and had somehow brought up a man that people like Kyle were willing to die for.

"_I volunteered."_

Sarah had been shocked to hear him admit he had wanted the mission. Later, after he admitted he loved her, she imagined he might have even begged her son for the chance to protect a woman he had never met, and yet still loved. He was willing to risk all to meet her, even knowing she wouldn't know anything. Even knowing he could die. Even knowing he could never go back.

"_I can't. Nobody gets home. Nobody else comes through. It's just him - and me."_

It had broken Sarah's heart, even while still wondering if he was insane, watching Kyle in the interrogation room of the police station and hear him explain that time traveling was a one way trip, and no matter what happened, he was stuck.

Meanwhile, Sarah was stuck going through time the slow way, on day at a time. And every drop of time was precious, not to be wasted. She glanced at the clock in her room. Overall, she had so little time, but the individual hours were dragging by, and the day where there would be a leader that Kyle would volunteer to go on a suicide mission for was a long way off.

--

**FINAL HOUR**

--

_The pain had changed. It felt different. It felt wrong._

_Over the past nine months she'd learned about the many different types of pain. There was the pain of getting wounded in a fight, like when a piece of flying metal struck her thigh after Kyle gave his life to try and save her, the pain of knowing he had died for her, the pain of tending wounds with stitches and harsh antiseptic, and the pain of grieving, deeply and quietly, for nine moths._

_Now, over what may have been a day, or may have been eternity, she had learned the many different types of pain that came with childbirth. Somewhere in her head where she could still think long enough to come up with metaphors she came up with the description of childbirth being a ride on white river rapids, pulling her along irreversibly towards her goal. _

_But now things felt like the river had lead her to nothing but rocks that tore into her._

_**-found the vein-**_

_**-estimated fetal weight?**_

_**The BP's still climbing!**_

_**We gotta make a decision-**_

_**-you think-**_

_**-check in alone?**_

_Sarah felt something she hadn't felt since she'd killed the Terminator. She felt scared._

--

**HOUR SEVEN**

**--**

To her surprise, she actually took a nap, a short doze with no nightmares, just a tense feeling of waiting permeating even into her REM cycle. The nurse who came to check her dilation again, startling her from her dreamless sleep, her hand automatically reaching for a gun that wasn't there, told her it wasn't unusual to be able go about somewhat normally during the first stages of labor. Sarah grumbled that if she'd known she'd spend so much time twiddling her thumbs she wouldn't have been such a rush to get there. The nurse chuckled while Sarah silently hoped her men had been able to get the guns out of port successfully.

The nurse who came in to check on her lent her a copy of _Rolling Stone_. She flipped though it disinterestedly, bored by the news she had once followed avidly. As she scanned an article on a new singer she idly thought that a name like Whitney Houston sounded too Country to be a Pop singer. Probably just be a one hit wonder.

"Have you decided what to name the baby?" asked the nurse.

"John," she said absently, flipping though the magazine, realizing how much she didn't care about articles on Billy Idol's sneer, Madonna's boobs, Miss America's hair, or bands that had formed since the last time she had read any magazines that weren't about weapons or politics.

"And if it's a girl?" prompted the nurse.

Sarah put down the magazine. "It's going to be a boy," she said placidly, lightly touching her stomach, suddenly realizing with an odd mix of fear and sadness that in a few hours she wouldn't be able to feel his heartbeat inside her, reassuring her that he was safe.

"That's nice," said the nurse, oblivious to everything Sarah was feeling.

--

**FINAL HOUR**

_--_

_Sarah's whole world began and ended with the pain. She struggled to think of something, anything, besides the pain. It consumed her, like an invisible fire eating her up, burning her. 'I'm going to die!' her mind wailed helplessly. 'I'm too young and it's too soon and I'm going to die!' She felt as though a part of her was separate from the lights and shouting and movement and was simply curled in a corner somewhere, weeping, waiting for the inevitable. _

'_NO! Snap out of it Sarah!'' she silently screamed at herself. 'No dying today! Not here! Not now! When you die you will die fighting! You hear me, soldier?'_

_**Where the hell is that nurse with-**_

_**-way beyond local anesthesia-**_

_**Damn it! I asked for the **_**Prom**_**ethazine, not –**_

_**Get the oxygen mask on her! Now!**_

_**Scalpel!**_

_**Keep breathing girl, can you hear me? Just keep breathing, everything's going to be-**_

_**-running out of time!**_

_**Did she sign the consent form?!**_

_Something was on her face. Suddenly it was easier to breath. She used the extra breath to open her mouth and scream. _

--

**HOUR TWELVE**

**--**

"You're not wearing a wedding ring."

Sarah bit her lip so hard she was surprised it didn't bleed as a contraction caused her to briefly spasm in pain. When she had her breath back she replied to the nurse she privately thought of as 'Nurse Ratchet' with a brief, "No, I'm not married," trying, only partially successfully, to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She wasn't sure what this particular nurse was supposed to be checking for, and suspected she might have been there just to see what Sarah's story was. She was probably being wasted as some hospital administer – reconnaissance soldiers, Sarah had learned, tended to be the best at leaning gossip.

"Well, a lot of women are taking that route these days," said the nurse in a voice that implied she heartily disapproved of the whole women's liberation movement in general. "Brave new world and all that," she sniffed.

"He's dead," snapped Sarah angrily.

The nurse made a face that might have been intended as sympathetic, but it just looked like she was sucking on lemons. "What a shame," she clucked. "Every child needs a father. Still, there's plenty of time for you to-" she stopped as Sarah managed to get her hand around the woman's forearm and started squeezing down on some very sensitive tendons.

"Shut. Up." growled Sarah.

The woman's eyes went round, both in pain and in surprise at the strength of Sarah's grip. "I'll… I'll just go check on… on someone else," she stammered. Sarah let her go silently. The woman tossed a book on Sarah's bedside table and scurried out.

Sarah picked it up; it was a fairly heavy and large black paperback with a black cover. She turned it over – a large white cross was embossed on the front. Of course. The Bible.

Out of either irony or looking for someone literary to commiserate with she opened it to the Book of Genesis and flipped through the chapters until she found the section on the miraculous birth of Isaac, foretold by God Himself. She skipped past the part where God promised Abraham he would be the father of nations, ancestor of kings, and ruler of a land of milk and honey.

She read softly aloud to herself and John, promising herself she would read to him more, since it was supposed to be such a good way to teach:

"Then the Lord said, 'I will surely return to you about this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son.' Now Sarah was listening at the entrance to the tent, which was behind him. Abraham and Sarah were already old and well advanced in years, and Sarah was past the age of childbearing. And Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, 'After I am worn out and my master is old, will I now have this pleasure?'"

**--**

**FINAL HOUR**

**--**

_Sarah was remembering every single swear she had every heard. Every curse. Every way to damn those she blamed. Some of the swearing was coming out of her mouth and some of it never made it out of her head, but she didn't really care at this point. _

_One of the last things she had the breath to scream out was a threat to start breaking kneecaps if the doctors didn't get their heads out of their asses._

_**-ignore that.**_

_**It's 160 over 110!**_

_**-telling you that she was **_**fine**_** when she came in!**_

_**-license away, you-**_

_**Almost out of-**_

_**-need to deliver!**_

_**-hurry up with-**_

_What the hell was going on?_

**--**

**HOUR SEVENTEEN**

--

'Pain can be controlled, you just disconnect it.'

Over and over she heard Kyle's words in her head. At the moment his advice sounded like utter bullshit. She wished he was there so she could yell at him that giving birth was an entirely different sort of pain than anything he had been through. She wished he was here she could yell at him for not telling her more about what she needed to know. She wished he was there so he could meet the son he had never known about, despite worshipping him as a hero and leader. She wished he was there so she could tell him she loved him. She wished he was there so she could tell him she was sorry. She wished he was there so she could cover him with kisses.

She wished he was there.

She wished he was there, even though she was fairly sure she presently looked like some sort of monster that would scare off the most hardened soldier. She cold feel the sweat pouring off of her, her checks felt flushed and warm, there had been some discharges as she dilated that she didn't want to think about, and she was positive her hair looked like something frightening, even by the new standards she had adopted after learning to live without the extravagance of beauty products she had used to think of as necessities. She hadn't given much thought to her looks in about nine months; she grimaced at the memory of her last day of a normal life, when she had gotten ready for a date and spent hours thinking of nothing but hair and make up and clothes.

One of the doctors was telling her something about controlling the pain through breathing. Sarah was about to tell him where he could shove his breathing techniques when suddenly she felt it hard to breathe at all.

--

**FINAL HOUR**

--

_But this wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Had she already messed things up? What was she supposed to do!? She was fairly sure she would hand over anything at this point for her mom to come in and tell her she'd been through the exact same thing giving birth to Sarah, and everything had turned out fine. Sarah knew it would be a lie on both counts, but she was ready for any reassurances at this point, even false ones. She selfishly wanted something to hope for, a promise that someday everything would be better. _

_Quite separate from the pain, she felt the sharp prick of yet another needle being inserted to her skin._

_**Do we have next of kin or what?**_

_**-forceps?**_

_**No time! No time!**_

_**-don't care-**_

_**Increase dosage to-**_

_**-ing Surgery Room 3 prepped!**_

_**It's your call, but-**_

_And Sarah knew no more._

**--**

**HOUR TWENTY ONE**

Things seemed to be happening quite fast now. Too fast, too quick, as she was wheeled from the room, and nurses and doctors came at a run. All that time waiting, waiting, and waiting, and now she wanted to grab Time itself, that old bastard, by the throat and demand just a few seconds to breathe.

Something was wrong. All the gentle reassurances and blithe explanations about normal progression and standard procedure were being exposed as utter _lies_ as anxiety and alarm colored the orders being shouted at a rapidly rising kinetic pace. As they shouted out incomprehensible medical terms, Sarah didn't need a doctorate to know things had veered off course.

Machines beeped angry frantic warnings as people converged around her. Her body had become a warzone, and she felt as helpless as any poor patch of ground that had ever been declared the perfect spot for a battle.

She writhed in pain, now unable to process the questions being shouted, some at her, and saw odd spots forming behind her eyes. She didn't need survival training to tell her she was about to pass out – waitressing shifts that had gone on too long and partying to excess had already long ago taught her about that. The last thing she heard before losing consciousness, quite distinguishable above the babble, from one of the nurses: "Where's the father?"

--

**AFTERBIRTH**

--

Sarah first became aware of a pillow, then sheets. They felt nice, even though they smelled faintly of some chemical or another, and she felt comfortably warm. On the edge between waking and sleeping she sighed, wanting to go back to sleep and enjoy this bed that was much softer than what she had become used to these past few months- _THE BABY!_ her mind screamed, all thoughts of comfort skidding to an abrupt halt as she remembered a jumbled rush of frantic sounds and imagines.

She jolted into full wakefulness and sat up in the hospital bed, looking around wildly. Muscles screamed in protest, already abused past endurance, but she ignored the pain. She was alone in what may or may not have been the same room from before the madness and yelling and wheeling through the halls to a room with impossibly bright lights and more yells, most of the yells coming from her before a needle had taken consciousness away.

She felt her much reduced stomach. The steady heart beat, the butterfly movements, the kicking, and the sensation of the life she was creating, moving and growing just under her skin, were all gone. She was just opening her mouth to scream when the door to her room opened and a nurse and a doctor she vaguely recognized from before came in. Dr. Shapiro, she thought triumphantly, that was his name, relieved that her memory wasn't shot.

"Ah, good, back in the land of the living," said the doctor, a little too heartily, as the nurse came over and carefully put John in her arms. "Congratulations. It's a boy. All cleaned up and checked out and ready to meet his mama."

Sarah ignored Dr. Shapiro as she gathered her baby close, and was amazed by the utterly natural and perfect fit he was to her arms. She gently ran a finger over his nose, his lips, his checks, his arms, his hands, his fingers, his fingernails, all impossibly perfect and tiny. He had a fine tuft of dark hair soft as feathers on top of his head; his skin was still red and wrinkled from nine months in the womb.

His eyes were closed and he gave a little sigh. She watched him sleep and her amazement at his tiny perfection gradually hardened into the grim realization that she was looking at the future. If she had to she would die for him, but she was rock certain in her resolve to go down fighting.

John Connor, the future leader of mankind, yawned, exhausted just from being born, with no idea of how much work he had in front of him. She stroked his hand and wondered how long before it would be big enough to hold a gun.

She couldn't stop looking at John as the doctor blathered on about a pediatric nurse coming to see her soon to give her a few pointers on breast feeding and other baby care and how Sarah should be sure to get plenty of bed rest.

He paused in his ramble of post-partum advice and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Nurse, would you give us a few minutes?" It was not a request. Sarah looked up, uneasy by his change in tone. The nurse's eyes flicked to Sarah's for a brief moment, an inscrutable look on her face, and then she left the room.

Sarah leveled a steady gaze at Dr. Shapiro. Whatever he was about to say couldn't be good. She glanced quickly at the door, wondering if there were cops behind it, waiting to her arrest her, and her mind raced as she tried to think where she might have dropped any clues to authorities about her recent career change, as it were. She tightened her grip on John slightly and wished she had a gun with her.

"Sarah," said the doctor in a voice that was so gentle it could only mean something terrible.

"Is John going to be all right?" she asked nervously, her heart starting to beat at a quick staccato. _OhGodIfailedohGodohGodohGodIfailedOhGodIfailedOhGod!_ her mind screamed.

"Yes, he's doing great. 10 out of 10 on the APGAR scale." He smiled like someone in a toothpaste commercial.

Sarah wanted to smack the doctor, instead she looked down at her baby, her son, her John, running her hands all over him, marveling both at how small he was and that he seemed to have survived his traumatic trip to the world in one piece.

She looked at Dr. Shapiro and asked again, "John is ok? No damage after all that?"

The doctor smiled brightly again, his gentle and reassuring manner doing nothing to ease the fear growing in Sarah. "He's fine," the doctor said in a falsely soothing tone. "But-"

"There's nothing wrong with him?" demanded Sarah again, cutting in to whatever he had been about to say, her mind now furiously listing all of the possible horrible pronouncements the doctor was about to make.

He smiled, more naturally this time, as he reassured her, "Your baby is a very healthy newborn. All signs point towards him growing into a healthy toddler, child, and then teenager, at which point, if he's anything like my sons, you'll have to hold back the urge to throttle him." He chuckled softly.

Sarah didn't laugh, but instead resumed checking John herself, bringing up mental lists of things she needed to do from what she remembered from her reading on baby care.

The doctor's voice became solemn again as he said, "Sarah, while the surgery saved both your life and your baby's life, there was a… complication."

Sarah took in a slight, sharp breath. "How bad?" she asked, bracing herself.

"The surgery we performed was necessary to ensure both you and your son survived," he reiterated, obviously stalling. "If the invasive tactic we took hadn't been done then the risk of hemorrhaging for you and brain damage for him-"

"Get to the _fucking_ point," snapped Sarah, not at all interested in things that could have, but hadn't, happened.

Dr. Shapiro looked surprised by her tone, but obediently pressed forward, "Sarah, I'm sorry… you can't have any more children." He paused and went on softly but sternly, "I want you to be _absolutely_ clear on this, another pregnancy would most definitely kill you and the baby as well."

He blathered on, throwing out terms concerning her now defunct child bearing ability that Sarah paid no attention to. She felt her shoulders relax slightly as the sudden tension left her. _John's ok._ _I'm ok._ was her first thought, relief flooding through her that there was no illness about to claim either one of them and no one waiting to separate them. _But-_ was the second thought – and she quickly shoved it aside with an iron will and locked it deep in a mental box, determined to never open it again.

The doctor still stood there, obviously waiting for her to say something. She looked at him and suddenly realized the doctor was waiting for something else as well. Absolution? Forgiveness? Acceptance? Whichever, Sarah decided to give it to him, by simply telling him the truth.

"My son is worth the world," she told him.

"I'm glad you feel that way," he smiled, looking relieved. "Oh," he added, "there was one another thing. Your son was born with a caul, it's just a bit membrane from the amniotic sac stuck to the head; it's nothing really, it happens every couple hundred births, I see it all the time, and it has no effect on the baby, but one of the nurses is, you know, _south of the border_, and believes in all that Catholic superstitious nonsense. She wants to know if she can keep the caul." The doctor rolled his eyes in recalled exasperation. "I told her just to throw the damn thing away, but she insisted. She says it will bring protection or something like that. Probably wants to sell it to someone else just as superstitious as a way to keep away the Evil Eye or something." He shrugged, condescendingly, and smiled at her with a conspiratorial shake of the head, as if to say, _those silly peasants_.

"Of course she can have it," said Sarah, trying not to let her irritation show at the man's arrogance.

"I'll tell her, then. I'm sure she'll be thrilled." He raised his eyebrows and said sardonically, "She said that a baby born with a caul is destined for greatness."

Greatness. Somehow the word caught Sarah by surprise, and, in the space of drawing in a deep breath, it made her realize the sheer size and weight of what had been put on her shoulders.

She was going to be raising someone who would be responsible for saving their entire species, fighting monsters that made today's armies look like children's toys, something to be picked up and scattered and broken with no effort at all. She had read history books describing women raising sons to rule kingdoms, to win battles, to build empires and to create new orders.

But this?

Atlas was wearing a backpack in comparison to this. This was insane. This was ridiculous! And, according to Kyle's pint of view, she'd not only already done it, she'd done it so well she was _legendary_! She had a sudden, crystallizing moment. She suddenly she knew exactly how the biblical Sarah felt when God spoke of the future. Endless work for someone else's gain._ This_ was greatness?

And Sarah laughed.


End file.
